I smile to myself. Tired, but proud.
This might not be where I thought I’d end up. But it’s mine.
That night, after unpacking just enough to find my favorite hoodie and a pan that isn’t dented, I make something simple. Buttered noodles with too much garlic and a sprinkle of parmesan. It's not fancy, but it tastes like comfort.
The apartment smells like patchouli and leftover store air, so I crack open a window. The breeze carries in a low hum of music from down the street. Probably from Will’s bar. I think I hear his voice once, laughing faintly over something, and I pause, hand wrapped around my mug of ginger tea.
My stomach flutters in the worst kind of way.
But I shake it off.
After dinner, I curl up on the floor with a blanket and scroll through my furniture cart. I delete half of it. Add two things. Delete them again.
This is freedom, and it’s terrifying.
Around ten, I shower and get into bed. I pull the covers up, let my hair dry against the pillow, and try to relax enough to sleep.
But, it’s hard. I’m not used to all the noises in town. Out on the ranch, it’s silent, except for my brother’s marital noises.
I’m just about to get up when my phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Will Flowers
You good over there?
I stare at the screen for a long second, thumb hovering.
Then I type back.
I am. Thanks for checking.
No problem, neighbor.
Ugh. Neighbor. That’s almost as bad as kiddo.
I wait to see if he’s going to text back. He doesn’t, so I put on a podcast and listen to it until I drift off to sleep.
The next morning, I check in with Olive. She’s staying at the only bed and breakfast in town. She says she and Liam are going out again tonight. Another date. I can’t tell if she’s excited or terrified. Maybe both. Before I can ask, her mom calls for her, and we hang up.
I stare at my phone for a minute after, then sigh.
I really need to figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life.
Once upon a time, I had dreams and goals. Event went as far as enrolling in school in Chicago. After my dad passed, I came back and just stayed. Fell into the rhythm of the ranch. Became good at what was in front of me. But good isn’t the same as passion.
And passion? That was always writing. Journalism. Digging into stories and pulling the truth out from where it hides.
But there’s no market for that in Broken Heart Creek.
Will’s bar is basically where the town gets its news—birth announcements, breakups, gossip, politics, the whole damn spectrum filtered through pool tables and whiskey.
Still.
Maybe I’m not thinking big enough.
Broken Heart Creek is known for its annual rodeo festival in June. Thousands of people roll in from all over the state. There’s money. Eyes. Buzz. Maybe that’s where my voice fits.
The idea stirs something in me I haven’t felt in a long time.
